Alguns dos admiradores da obra de Philip Roth - entre os quais me incluo para não dizer-se que não gosto de nada - têm vindo a chamar a atenção para os primeiros passos do novo livro, Everyman. Daqui chega-se a este belo poema de Keats, sem mais comentários, que constitui a epígrafe de Everyman:
"Here where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow."
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When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance ;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour !
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love ! - then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink
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